


Never Spoken

by YumYumPM



Series: Never [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friendship between spies are never spoken of in the spy industry.  Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin's new partnership is off to a rocky start.  Their working relationship improves until Napoleon reaches the age of mandatory retirement from the field and he begins to worry about Illya's future survival in the field.  Originally published in Kuryakin File #25</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never Spoken

1960

In the early days before Solo was made CEA, he would sit in his office joking and conversing with various other Section II agents. Most of these discussions centered on certain flavors of the month and bases made with a couple of winks thrown in.

This would not have been a big deal, if his office was his alone. Recently a new agent had been assigned to share the office with him, a young Russian, fresh out of Survival School. Maybe fresh was going a bit far. Kuryakin had been assigned first to the Paris Office and then to the London Office before finally being transferred to New York.

The two agents were rarely in the office at the same instance, Kuryakin spending a majority of his time in the lab. So sharing had not proven a problem – until now. 

Kuryakin bent over his paperwork, while Napoleon sat on his desk joking with a couple of other agents. When the agents left and Solo moved around to sit at his desk. Kuryakin, not looking up from his work, felt irritated enough to say tartly, “I have better things to do then listen to you talk about doing the nasty.” Kuryakin’s soft Russian accented voice had, until now, been quiet and polite.

Solo’s first reaction was to send a biting comment back to the Russian. Then it hit him what the man had said and Napoleon nearly choked. His anger changed to shocked amusement. “Where on earth did you learn that term?”

Kuryakin actually looked up from his work, his eyes unfocused as he considered. “From Katherine…or was it Amanda. I am not sure which.”

“I can’t believe Katie or Mandy would discuss sex with you,” Napoleon teased, his mind on his paperwork.

“They didn’t exactly discuss,” muttered Kuryakin.

“What was that?” Napoleon looked up sharply. “You mean it was more then talk?”

Illya look disconcerted. “I did not say that…exactly.” He had not intended to admit to anything. He was just tired of all of Solo’s talk.

“Ummm, just what did you say…exactly?” Napoleon asked, putting down his pen and leaning forward. “Perhaps I should bug your bedroom and see.”

“If so, it will only be the one time," Kuryakin said threateningly, drawing his U.N.C.L.E. special. A glint of amusement in his eye let Solo know that he was not entirely serious.

However, just then a fellow agent entered the room, saw what he perceived to be a threat to Solo, and pulled his gun. Napoleon quickly moved to place himself between the two men, his hands palms out toward both men. “Whoa, put those away,” he ordered sharply.

“Are you sure?” the agent asked, looking distrustfully at the Russian.

“Quite sure,” Solo asserted. “Was there anything you wanted, Carl?” he asked when the gun was back in its holster.

“It can wait,” Carl said and turned to leave the room. “I’ll go file a report.”

“Carl!” Napoleon called out and when the agent turned back continued. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Carl sent a scorching look Illya’s way. “Whatever you say, Napoleon.”

After he was gone, each let out sighs of reliefs. Solo whirled around just as Kuryakin, shaking slightly with repressed anger over Carl’s distrust, set his gun down on his desk. 

“That was exceedingly stupid,” Napoleon growled. He was fully aware that the Russian had no intention of shooting him. After all, he had worked hard to get under the blond’s placid skin. But others might not see it that way.

“I am aware of that,” Kuryakin said coolly. “It will not happen again.”

“It had better not.” Napoleon scowled going back to his desk. The next minute the scowl was gone, replaced by a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Got any plans for supper?”

“No. Why?” Kuryakin looked up suspiciously.

“Because, my friend, I think we need to have a little chat,” Napoleon said going back to work. “We might as well enjoy a good meal while I worm all your little secrets out of you.”

“Must I?”

“But of course, Tovarisch,” Napoleon said in a tone that brooked no argument as he signed his name to a report with a flourish. “After all, I am senior agent by two years.” 

∞∞∞

That evening Napoleon dropped in at Illya’s apartment, a three story walkup, at precisely eight o’clock. Before he could knock, the door opened, and Kuryakin came out adjusting his jacket.

“It that what you’re wearing?” Napoleon asked, staring.

“What is wrong with what I am wearing?” Illya asked, looking down at his black turtleneck and slacks. “I have never had any complaints before.”

“Nothing in and of itself,” Napoleon said sternly, as he pushed the Russian back through the door. “However where we are going you will need a tie.”

With a sigh of resignation, Illya retreated into his room to change. Was this really going to be worth so much trouble?

Solo stood waiting, his hands in his pockets. He looked around finding the Russian’s apartment stark and sterile, devoid of personality. Except for the piles of books scattered here and there. He would have thought that after a few months here, there would be more. “Tell me. Where exactly do you take your dates?” he called out.

Illya returned suitably attired in suit and tie. In fact it appeared to be the same garments he’d worn to work that day. Perhaps it was all he had available, if the lack of possessions extended into that area as well. “Oh, the Automat, the museum, the library. Not that it is any of your business.”

The Automat? Museum? Library? “That’s it?” Napoleon couldn’t keep from asking. “You don’t wine and dine them? Cheap aren’t you?” 

That stung. Kuryakin glared at the American. “Some of us are not as well off financially as others.” 

Napoleon had not meant to insult the man, he wasn’t well off either. If it must be known, most of his money went toward entertaining the ladies. “My apologies. Let’s go. I hope you like Italian.”

∞∞∞

 

The restaurant was a favorite of Napoleon’s. The food was plentiful and good, the lighting dim. Judging by the way Illya’s suit hung on him, a few good meals would not be remiss.

The two agents were shown to a booth and the waiter asked for their orders for drinks.

“Vodka?” Napoleon asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Scotch,” the Russian said, shaking his head.

“Make that two,” Napoleon said to the waiter, before asking the man across from him. “I thought all Russian’s drank vodka?”

“Not all,” was the terse response.

The waiter handed them menus and as he opened his, Napoleon asked, “Sooo, you’ve gone out with Katy and Mandy?”

“You sound surprised.”

Napoleon was not only surprised, he was shocked. He had been working on both women for months with no results. “Does that mean you’ve…um…done the…er…nasty?” the phrase tickled his sense of humor.

The Russian’s pale face turned red. “I am not comfortable discussing such matters.”

“So what’s your secret?” Napoleon asked after a few minutes silence.

“There is no secret. They ask me out. I go. Later they jump me, drag me into their bedrooms. I do what they want. Then I go home.”

Napoleon waited for more details, his mouth open. Kuryakin had to be putting him on. 

“Please can we change the subject?” Illya urged.

Napoleon closed his mouth and shook his head in disbelief. Conceding to the Russian’s request he turned back to his menu and changed the subject. “See anything you like?”

Illya squinted. “I cannot read the menu in this light.”

The waiter returned with their drinks and stood waiting for their order.

“Do you have cheeseburgers?” Illya asked handing the menu to the waiter.

Both the waiter and Napoleon looked at him, their mouths gaping.

“Cheeseburger…you’re joking, right.” Napoleon didn’t notice the quirky smile on the Russian’s face. “What do you order for your dates?”

“They are adult. They can order for themselves.”

“Yeah. Maybe you need glasses,” Napoleon muttered. “Oookay, tell you what. Why don’t I order for you?” At Illya’s nod of approval, Napoleon turned to the waiter. “We’ll have the special. Also a bottle of the Chianti.”

“What dressing would you like on your salad?” the waiter requested, pen poised.

“Russian,” Napoleon said.

“Italian,” said the Russian.

The waiter nodded and took his leave.

After an awkward pause Napoleon asked, “So how was your day?”

Kuryakin seemed taken by surprise, but he waxed on about a puzzling problem in the lab. Napoleon showed great interest, even when the drinks were served. Something, however, caught the Russian's suspicions. Keeping his voice at the same level, he threw out. “And then the person whose office I share propositioned me.” When Napoleon did not respond to that outrageous statement, he continued a bit louder, “You are not listening to a thing I’ve said, are you?”

Napoleon had long ago mastered the art of looking as if he was interested without actually listening. He snapped back, however, when Kuryakin stopped talking and mentally reviewed what had been said. “I never propositioned you,” he responded indignantly.

Kuryakin shrugged. “Perhaps not. Is this what you do with all your lady friends?”

“Pretty much,” Napoleon admitted. “So you like working in the lab?”

“It is okay,” Illya answered, playing with his silverware. “I would really prefer blowing things up.”

“Hmmm. Well if I need something blown up, I’ll keep you in mind.”

This resulted in the first flash of a genuine smile from the Russian that Napoleon had ever seen. Their salads arrived and Napoleon watched as Illya pushed the greens around on his plate.

“Something wrong?”

“No.” 

“If you don’t like Italian dressing, why did you order it?”

“Why did you order Russian dressing?”

“I happen to like Russian dressing.” Napoleon was puzzled. “You thought I had an ulterior motive?”

“Did you?”

The waiter returned to remove the salad plates and place huge platters of pasta before them. Napoleon found it amusing to watch as the Russian tried getting strings of pasta to his mouth. The pasta kept slipping off the fork before it made it to the Russian’s lips. Napoleon almost had a seizure when Illya began cutting the pasta into manageable sized pieces. Then he noticed the tiny smile on the Russian’s face that let Napoleon know that the sly Russian was doing it on purpose to irk him.

“Answer me this,” Illya asked pointing the knife he was using at the American. “Why are you so interested in my sex life?”

It was a good question. Why was he? “It’s just that you make it sound like such a chore.”

“It is not a chore,” Illya said between bites. “It is…excuse me.” All color in his face drained and he hurriedly left the table.

Napoleon sat there for a few minutes before deciding to follow. He pushed open the bathroom door to hear sounds of heaving coming from one of the stalls. “Illya?” he called anxiously.

At sound of something heavy hitting the inside of one of the stalls, Napoleon pushed that particular door open. Illya was curled up against the side. 

“Are you all right?’ Napoleon asked. He received a glare from the blue eyes, before Illya once again lurched toward the bowl. 

“Stupid question,” Napoleon muttered as he squatted down beside the sick man. “I’m contacting headquarters,” he said, pulling his communicator from his jacket.

Illya stopped vomiting long enough to stay his hand. “No!” 

The door to the bathroom opened and closed. Napoleon went over to the sink, took a handkerchief from his pocket, wetting it. Wringing it out, he brought it over and draped it at the back of the Russian’s neck.

The manager of the restaurant burst through the door taking the scene in. “Mr. Solo, what is wrong?”

“My friend is not well. Can I get some help, Andre?” Napoleon asked looking up at the anxious man.

“But of course. Right away.” Andre turned away, snapping his fingers. Soon two waiters appeared and with their help Napoleon managed to get Illya into the car and returned to headquarters and the medical staff on call there. Had someone tried to poison the Russian? Napoleon worried.

∞∞∞

Napoleon pushed open the door to the darkened room. A dim light showed the blond head resting on a pillow. He started to turn away when the blue eyes opened. 

“Feeling better?” Napoleon asked as he slipped into the room.

“Much.” Illya pushed himself up into a sitting position. “The doctors say it was just an allergic reaction to mollusk.”

“Mollusk?” Napoleon questioned with a frown.

“Yes. It was in the sauce.” Illya yawned. The nurse had given him a muscle relaxant to help with the stomach cramps, making him drowsy. “I was unaware I had an allergy,” he mused. “I should be out of here by tomorrow.”

“Good,” Napoleon said. “Mr. Waverly has an assignment for us. And if I’m not mistaken, you may get your chance to blow something up.”

“Sounds like fun.” The blond flashed a shy smile. Then he slid back down resting his head upon the pillow, his eyelids closing. “Napoleon?” he called before drifting off.

“Yes?” The senior agent turned back from the partially opened door.

“Did you mean what you said?”

Napoleon frowned. “What did I say?”

“That I was your friend.” The Russian curled on one side, trying to get comfortable.

Napoleon thought about it. The answer was obvious. “Sure did. Goodnight – my friend,” Napoleon said softly as he closed the door behind him. He missed the smile of satisfaction that flitted across the Russian’s face.

1972

The day Napoleon Solo turned thirty-nine was one of best and one of worse day in his life. The best because the entire secretarial pool (or most of it) got together and decided that as a present they would take turns wishing him a wonderful birthday in the map room. By the end of the day it was surprising that he had energy left at all.

The worst was when one of the Section II agents clapped him on the back and congratulated him on having only one more year in the field. No more getting shot at or drugged. It was then that it hit him.

No more working with his partner, no more bantering, no more watching his back. Illya Kuryakin was a more than competent agent, but he did have a tendency to get banged up, even with Solo to watch out for him. None of this was ever spoken, but the more Napoleon thought about it the more agitated he got.

He found thinking about turning forty affecting him in many areas. Going out was no longer an enjoyable experience when all he could do was wonder about who would be protecting Illya. At work Napoleon found himself snapping at fellow workers. He would have to find a quiet spot to calm down in. He kept telling himself over-and-over that Illya was perfectly capable of protecting himself, of being out there on his own. That worked for a little while.

One day, after he left a research assistant in tears, whose lack of pertinent details had left Illya without vital information that almost cost him is life, someone decided it was time to go to Kuryakin and suggest he talk to his partner. Illya, recovering from the resulting injury, had not noticed a difference in Napoleon. He had yet to witness Napoleon’s short temper, so he just shrugged it off and didn’t bring it up. So the problem, if there was a problem, was never spoken about.

Six months before Solo turned forty matters got worse. Mr. Waverly decided to start pairing Kuryakin with new partners. Napoleon was kept more and more at headquarters, deskwork his chief duty. The inactivity caused Solo’s tenuous control over his temper to really begin to slip. He managed to control it for the most part, but it was getting harder to push certain thoughts out of his mind. He knew he was being unreasonable, not trusting that other agents would value the Russian’s worth as he had, but it didn’t help. The two had worked so long and so well together, that he found the change disturbing. He tried to throw himself into his work, keeping away from personal contact with others. 

Three months before Solo’s birthday things finally came to a head. Napoleon went to Waverly pleading to be allowed to stay in the field for one more year or at least to have Kuryakin transferred to the lab for that year.

Alexander Waverly looked at his senior agent as if he were crazy. “We have too much time and money invested in Mr. Kuryakin to pull him from the field. He is more than capable of surviving without you.”

Solo had backed down, the same way he’d backed down during the Concrete Overcoat Affair. He continued to do his job to the best of his abilities, which were considerable. That was until word came down that Kuryakin had been seriously injured on an assignment while his current partner received not a scratch. He exploded. Storming into Waverly’s office he calmly removed his gun and identification, placing them on a shocked Waverly’s desk. 

When Alexander Waverly finally recovered from his astonishment, Solo was already gone. He ordered a complete shut down, but by then it was too late. Solo, with his knowledge of the workings of the Security Section, managed to evade them with surprising ease much to Waverly’s chagrin. He turned Section IV loose in an attempt to locate Solo. But not a trace could be found. It was as if he had disappeared from the face of the earth.

Kuryakin arrived at the medical section in pretty bad shape and when he finally regained consciousness he asked where Solo was. No one had the nerve to tell him. Mr. Waverly passed the buck to Miss Rogers, who passed it on to April Dancer (current acting CEA), who pulled rank and delegated it to Mark Slate, who decided that Randy Kovac (former trainee, now full fledge agent) was the man for the job. 

Randy Kovac reluctantly entered the medical section sure he was about to be eaten alive. After all if none of the higher ups were willing to break the news it must be bad. With his knees shaking, he swallowed hard and told Kuryakin that U.N.C.L.E. had no earthly idea where Solo was.

He was greatly surprised when Illya thanked him politely for the information. It was a story he was destined to tell over and over to all and sundry in the commissary. No one could believe it.

One month later when a limping Kuryakin, his body bent, one arm wrapped protectively against his ribs, was finally released from the medical section, he made his painful way to the agent’s exit. Leaning on a sturdy cane, he handed in his badge, refusing all offers of help.

The agent scanning that exit was later interrogated about how, when a convertible pulled up in front of Del Floria’s, no alarm was sounded. The ex-CEA had left the driver’s side, rounded the front of the car and solicitously opened the door for the limping agent. He had then smiled into the camera before climbing into the driver’s seat and driving away.

Despite an intensive investigation, it was never established how Solo knew exactly when Kuryakin was to be released from Medical.

On the date of Kuryakin’s fortieth birthday, an open convertible pulled up in front of Del Floria’s entrance. Two men, one dark, the other blond, both tan, well rested and in obvious good health, got out and made there way down the stairs. The darker of the two nodded to the man behind the counter before entering the booth and turning the hook. Entering the receptionist area, a voice was heard over the intercom. “Welcome back, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin.”

 

Continued in Never Alone


	2. Never Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago I read about Robert Vaughn's friendship with the Kennedy family and it somehow worked its way into this story, along with Aunt Amy. This story is purely my imagination. Any errors are all mine.

Act I-The Price of Friendship is Blood, Sweat, and Tears

Leaning casually against the side of his convertible, Napoleon Solo watched with a critical eye as Illya laboriously negotiated each step as he left Del Floria’s Tailor Shop. it still pained him that he'd not been there for his partner...his former partner, when he had been forced to leave his partner unprotected. Not that Illya Nichovitch Kuryakin would ever admit to being unable to protect himself. Bitter resentment filled him at the arcane ruling that had required his retirement from the field once he turned forty. Strangely enough, Illya appeared unsurprised at finding Napoleon there waiting for him, especially since they not communicated with one another since Napoleon's untimely departure six month previously. 

He held his breath as Illya stopped within inches from him, relieved when a slow welcoming smile lit his partner's normally dour face. Smiling back he took the cane that held his friend up and tossed it into the backseat. Napoleon held himself in check, keeping any emotion from showing on his face, as Illya painfully maneuvered his body to slide into the car, grimacing as he pulled in his injured leg. Solo carefully shut the car door before going around to the other side, slipping behind the wheel and driving away , all this long before security had managed to make it to the door.

He felt rather than saw Illya turn slightly, not an easy thing to do considering the heavy back brace he was required to wear, and looked at the friend he hadn’t seen in months. Napoleon could feel the blue eyes staring at him and knew that to the uninformed eye he looked more relaxed then the last time Illya had seen him. Nothing could have been further from the truth. In the time since he'd left U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon had never felt more alone.

He fully expected Illya's first question to be 'where have you been?'. That's not what he got.

“Might I ask where we are going?” Illya inquired mildly.

Napoleon took his eye away from the road for just an instant. “Where would you like to go?”

“Home.” Was the emphatic answer.

"Sorry. That's not on the agenda." Napoleon glanced at the face of his friend and partner. Illya held his body stiffly erect and seemed to have gotten smaller in the intervening months - he was paler, thinner. He withheld a sigh as he glanced into the rearview mirror, checking to be sure they were not followed.

When they stopped at a red light Napoleon requested, “Hand me your communicator.”

Illya gave him a look, the without questioning the command, removed it from his jacket and passed it over. With an raised brow he watched as Napoleon expertly tore it apart, essentially making it inoperative before handing it back. There was no need for him to explain his action. Illya knew the score.

Their drive continued in silence until they pulled into the service entrance of the Alexandria Park Hotel. Awaiting their arrival was a smiling doorman, a wheel chair by his side. Illya glared first at the chair, then at Napoleon, who smirked, letting the glower wash over him. 

“Humor me,” Napoleon insisted as he walked around the front of the car and tossed the keys to the doorman then grabbed Illya's cane from the backseat. 

With the doorman holding the car door open, Illya made his painful way from the front seat of the car to the wheel chair. Once Illya was settled in, the doorman moved behind the wheel of the car and drove it away. Napoleon maneuvered the chair to the entrance, stopping to admire the view as a female tenant left the building and received a whack from the cane Illya carried for his trouble.

Illya, in spite of the glare he'd sent Napoleon's way, was grateful for the wheel chair. He didn't like that he was delegated to a wheelchair, but he realized the necessity of it. His last mission had taken more out of him than he realized. As much as he disliked it he also knew that he would need more help than he really wanted to ask for.

He was extremely curious about what Napoleon had been up to, but knew he wouldn’t learn anything until Solo was good and ready. Whatever he'd been up to, he must have done well. The Napoleon Solo he knew never had the money to stay in a place up to the Alexandria Hotel's standard. But he was damned if he would ask any questions as he was wheeled into an elevator and the button was punched for the top floor. The top floor? Shit just what had Napoleon been up to?

"At least it's not a six floor walkup," Napoleon muttered.

The fact that Illya's apartment was on the sixth floor of his building that had no elevator was not lost on him.

The elevator door opened and standing waiting was a well dressed lady. A lady of elegance, that was the only way to describe her, from the top of her coiffed white hair to the toes of her expensive heels, she radiated an air of distinction said it all. Illya looked up, surprised when Napoleon smiled affectionately at her and kissed her on the check as he pushed the wheel chair out into the hallway. 

“I see you’re almost ready to leave, Aunt Amy.”

This was the infamous Aunt Amy? Illya had only heard the name in passing, maybe once.  
She beamed up at the roguishly handsome younger man. It was only when she noticed the blond sitting in a wheel chair that she exclaimed, “My dear child, what happened to you?”

The two agents looked at each other before answering simultaneously, “Car accident.”

“You really should be more careful,” she admonished before turning back to Napoleon and patting his cheek. “I really can’t thank you enough for watching the place for me while I’m gone, dear. If you should need anything Charles here will be more than happy to help you. Won’t you, Charles?”

The man in question, his attention occupied with an overabundance of suitcases, answered absently, “Yes, ma’am.” 

“You’ll love Charles,” she said with pride. “He has a great many talents. Just don’t let him con you out of anything,” she warned. Without further ado, Aunt Amy and Charles, just narrowly avoiding dropping a couple of the suitcases, entered the awaiting elevator. Before the door closed Amy blew Napoleon a farewell kiss.

With a raised brow and a tilt of his head, Kuryakin couldn’t resist smirking. “Aunt Amy?”

“It’s a long story,” Napoleon said, his face darkening with embarrassment, as he wheeled the chair through the open double doors. Pushing the chair to the center of the room, he went back to close the doors and waited while Illya took in his surroundings.

By the time Illya finished perusing the room, noting the expensive furniture and the enormous bookcases full of leather bound books, Charles had returned.

“The master suite, Charles,” Napoleon ordered assured that Charles would follow with Illya. Charles wheeled Illya close to the huge king-size bed, stopping short of helping him out of the chair when he saw the look on Illya’s face. He might not be the smartest person in the world but he was not suicidal either. "The name's Lester Freeman, but her ladyship insists on using Charles," he informed Illya. "Lord only knows why."

"No man is free who has to work for a living," the two intoned simultaneously, then burst out laughing. It felt good.

“Thank you, Charles. I think I can handle it from here. Why don’t you take some time off while you have the chance? If I need you I’ll be in touch,” Napoleon said with a smile.

With a nod to Solo and a glance at Kuryakin’s forbidding face he left the room. What would he do with his time off. Hmm, the track should be opened soon and there was plenty to do in New York City.

Once Charles had left the apartment, Napoleon went to a mirrored closet door and opened it. To Illya's surprise most of the clothes stored in it are his. Evidently this had been a well thought out plan. He watched as Napoleon moved to the dresser and pulled out a drawer extracting a pair of pajamas. 

“Tell you what, why don’t you change into this and get comfortable. I’ll go to the kitchen and fix you something to snack on. Then I will explain everything,” Napoleon said as he left the room. When he returned with a tray of food he found that Illya had managed to transfer himself to the bed and that was all. 

Setting down the tray, Napoleon shook his head. He struggled to helped Illya remove his jacket and shoes, much to Illya's consternation. 

"I'm perfectly capable of undressing myself," Illya groused.

"Yes, I can see that you can." Napoleon paused when the body brace came into view. He had known it was there, but the actual sight of it was still jarring. The fact that Napoleon had not been there to back up Illya still cut him like a knife. With great care he assisted in its removal and the arranging of pillows so as to support the Russian before turning back to the tray. By the time he turned back Illya had made himself comfortable against the head of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

“So what have you been doing with yourself these past months?” Illya finally asked.

“Oh nothing much,” Napoleon responded as he set the tray on Illya’s lap and took the napkin and flicked it, then placed it under Illya’s chin much to Illya's disgust.

Illya jerked the napkin out from inside his collar before turning his attention to the tray. Soup, salad, and fresh fruit met with his approval. Digging in, he settled in more comfortably and furtively watched Napoleon as he puttered about the room. 

“What no desert?” he pointed out in disappointment.

"Unfortunately Aunt Amy is on a health food kick," Napoleon apologized.

Illya sighed dramatically, then took an appreciative sip of the soup. Chicken broth and not from a can. Nicely seasoned. He had expected his palate to be terminally damaged from all the bland food he had been forced to choke down during his stay in the medical section. He savored each bite of crisp green salad and enjoyed the fresh fruit, marveling that he had any appetite at all. When he was finished he set the tray aside. “Okay, let’s have it.”

Solo, who had been watching him like a hawk, opened his mouth and realized he wasn't sure where to start.

“Why don’t you start with ‘Aunt Amy’?” Illya suggested.

Nodding Napoleon settled into a bedside chair, the one concession to femininity in the entire room. 

“Well, to begin with Aunt Amy is not my Aunt.”

A blond eyebrow arched incredulously under shaggy hair.

“Amelia Elizabeth Kelly, Petrovich, McKenna, Chan...” Napoleon paused, counting on each finger.

“Chan?”

Napoleon nodded. “Dubronski, Scott, Reynolds and my mother grew up together. Growing up I was encouraged to call her Aunt Amy. Anyway, in her younger days she used to be a chanteuse. A fairly good one too, if the reviews I've seen are any indication. I can show you her playbills later, if you like. They’re hanging in the music room. With each marriage she manage to better herself financially, so she's worth quite a bit. Don't let that sweet face fool you, she's as smart as they come.”

“Mr. Waverly is aware of her, yes?”

“To the best of my knowledge, no. There hasn’t been any real contact between us in years. But Aunt Amy’s a good sport. When I needed to disappear she came to my rescue.”

“That must have been a first. A woman rescuing you,” Illya mused. “They told me no one knew where you were.”

“They don’t,” Napoleon acknowledged. “As I said Aunt Amy is a very good sport. She also has friends in very high places and some in pretty low places as well. Like Charles.”

“Ah yes. And Charles?”

“Charles is an ex-con who made the mistake of thinking he could pull a fast one on Aunt Amy.”

“And now?”

“And now in exchange for not going back to jail he is her major domo. A job, from what I can tell, he is well paid and seems to enjoy.”

Illya considered. “That explains why you are here. Why am I?”

Napoleon didn't answer right away, instead he glanced at his watch and pulled a brown pill bottle from his jacket pocket. Getting up and pouring water into a glass, then he responded, “You needed a place to recuperate and Aunt Amy was planning to go to Europe for the season,” he explained as he opened the pill bottle and poured out two pills. 

“I am perfectly capable of recuperating alone at home.” Illya pointed out. “May I?” he asked, snatching the bottle from Napoleon’s hand. It bore his name. A similar bottle had been handed to him upon his release from medical. “Dare I ask how you got this?”

“Best not to. Just take these. You’ve had a long day. Tomorrow if you still insist on leaving, we will discuss it.”

“Discuss it?” Illya said as he reluctantly swallowed the pills. “We will do more than discuss.”

The medication was strong, as Napoleon well knew, and soon Illya grew drowsy. Even away as he had been, Napoleon had kept abreast of Illya’s treatments. He knew what medications his partner was on, and the recommended therapy that had been prescribed. He also knew his partner and was sure that Illya would not follow the doctor’s recommendations as he should.

When Illya’s eyes finally closed. Napoleon, with an affectionate gaze, pulled the coverlet up tucking him in. Napoleon smiled down on the picture his partner made, lying in the huge bed. A strand of blond hair hung over his eyes and Napoleon reached down and brushed it aside. Gathering up the tray he turned and left the room.

Aunt Amy’s apartment had a perfectly adequate guest room, but the master suite had a small sitting room attached. It was there that Napoleon had decided to make his base of operations. In spite of the Russian’s mobility, Napoleon was aware that leaving him alone to fend for himself was not wise.

The sitting room was definitely Aunt Amy's with its chintz curtains, a small writing desk, and a lounging chair that, surprisingly enough, was comfortable to sleep on, just so long as Napoleon didn’t turn over in his sleep. Which was exactly what happened that night.

When Napoleon found himself on the floor, he knew instantly what had awakened him. The medical report he’d managed to acquire had been quite explicit about the nightmares his partner suffered from. The report read that Illya had been buried under a half a ton of rubble for over twelve hours and to watch for just such symptoms. Picking himself up, Napoleon made his way in the dark to the bed in the next room. Illya was tossing and turning. Unable to tell if it was nightmares or pain that caused Illya’s harsh breathing, Napoleon climbed on the bed and pulled the agitated body to him, holding on tightly. When Illya stopped trembling and his breathing evened out Napoleon released him and silently returned to the other room.

Over the following week a pattern of sorts developed. Knowing that Illya disliked having his weaknesses witnessed, Charles' services were dispensed with by the second day. After a restless night, Illya would awaken in a foul mood. He would complain as Napoleon patiently fixed his bath and meals. Lunch time would find him in a more agreeable mood. Napoleon would see him settled in the library with one of the many books from the well stocked bookcase. Aunt Amy had an extensive collection of books in many languages. The two would sit quietly reading or they would chat about nothing in particular. Then a therapist was allowed entrance to help exercise and massage the injured body. Sessions that Illya resented and soon dubbed the Time of Torture. After a light supper and toward twilight Illya would start to get cranky again as Napoleon insisted he get back into bed. Around midnight the moaning would start again and…

∞∞∞

During the second week Napoleon did what he had done every morning since he’d picked up Illya in front of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. He started Illya’s bath and left his pills out for him to take. He was going through Illya’s wardrobe when Illya came storming out of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel. The dirty laundry was piling up. He would have to ask Charles where he should go to have it done. Napoleon would rather not leave Illya alone though, especially in the mood Illya would undoubtedly be in. He prepared himself for the usual gripes that Illya would throw his way, but his patience was wearing just a little thin. 

“Take your pills.” Napoleon snapped and instantly regretted.

The pills were forcefully swept off the night stand and scattered across the floor. 

“No!” Came the petulant reply. “I’m tired of taking these damn pills and I’m tired of…” There was a grunt then Illya continued, “wearing this damn brace.” The brace was thrown with such force that it shattered the mirror on the closet door.

Napoleon just stood there. He was surprised and then again he wasn’t. The doctor’s reports had warned of this. To expect outbursts of anger and this morning Illya was more than usually out of sorts.

“I am tired of the exercises,” the Russian continued angrily. “And I’m tired of your complacency. No matter what I say or do you do not get angry or raise your voice.” 

Napoleon stooped down and picked up the accursed back brace. He counted to ten while he was down there. “What is it you want me to say?” he asked calmly, as he started to pick up the shards of glass.”

“I don’t want your pity. Get angry with me. Shout at me. Do something.” 

“I can’t do that,” Napoleon responded calmly unable to face the angry Russian. 

“And why not.” The Russian demanded to know.

Suddenly Napoleon couldn’t take it anymore, his hand tightened around a glass shard drawing blood. The blood was flowing leaving a trail of bright red fluid onto plush carpet. Didn’t Illya realize how much it pained him to see him in so much pain? To constantly have to maintain a detached attitude? 

“Napoleon, what do you think you are doing?” Illya's voice rose in alarm.

∞∞∞

Charles quietly let himself into the apartment. It had been agreed that he would leave them alone and show up once a week to do the major cleaning. He could hear water running in the master bath as he got out the vacuum cleaner. At the sound of glass breaking he rushed to the master suite. Napoleon was on the floor staring in amazement at his bleeding hand as it dripped soaking the carpet. Mrs. Reynolds had been very explicit about his taking good care of his charges. So far he was doing a piss poor job. He grabbed a towel wrapping it around the bloody hand in a vain attempt to stop the flow. Damn it, he had thought that he should have been concerned about the little blond guy. Obviously he was wrong.

During one of his incarcerations Charles had worked in the infirmary. He had seen and helped treat a lot of wounds far worse, this one was minor in comparison. He got a grip on Napoleon, hefting him up and helping him into the bathroom. Blondie tried to follow. “You. Stay,” Charles growled as he shut the door in Illya’s face. Sitting Napoleon on the ridiculously feminine vanity stool, Charles glanced at Napoleon’s face. “Hurt?” he asked.

“Not bad. Sorry, I haven’t had to deal with this sort of thing in awhile,” Napoleon replied, his expression closed off , his voice a dull monotone.

“You get a lotta blood in your line of work?” Charles asked as he reached for a pair of tweezers that Mrs. Reynolds kept on hand and proceeded to clean out any shards of glass that might have imbedded itself in the wound. Thankfully he knew where everything was in this room and didn't have to hunt for anything. With calm efficiency Charles cleaned, wrapped, and bandaged the wound. Fortunately it wasn’t deep enough to require stitches, though he could have done that if he had to. “What happened? You want we should go to the hospital?”

“No!” Napoleon growled sharply, holding the throbbing hand close, then taking a deep breath he continued more calmly. “No, that won’t be necessary. It was just an accident.”

Charles heard the bathroom door open and shut, leaving him alone as he put the supplies away. An accident, huh. Well he supposed that was possible. Accidents do happen. Boss Lady would not be pleased though. He would definitely have to call her about this. Then putting the incident from his mind, he turned his attention to remembering the best way to get blood out of the carpet.

∞∞∞

Illya chewed his bottom lip, then looked up from where he sat on the bed as Napoleon left the bathroom. He could have pressed the point when Charles had ordered him to stay out, but something had held him back and he had decided not to. 

“Napoleon...” he pleaded, wanting to know that his partner was okay. He had been so caught up in his own setback, that he'd forgotten how all this affected Napoleon. Napoleon just held his good hand up, stemming any flow of words and walked out of the room. Illya followed and watched as Napoleon proceed into the study and quietly shut the door behind him. He heard the unmistakable click of the door being locked. Leaning on the door frame, he closed his eyes. He would have to leave, of course. His anger had caused this situation. 

“Don’t even think it.” 

Illya spun around. He had completely forgotten about Charles.

Charles was kneeling in front of the mirror, picking up the shards of glass. “Miz Reynolds said you was to stay, so you stay.” The tone of voice was emphatic, leaving no room for argument. 

Illya moved to pick up the pills that had spilt on the floor, taking one without water. His penance. Wearily he sat down on the bed and ran his fingers through his hair, all the while wondering when he had managed to lose control over his life.

∞∞∞

Under the hot Mediterranean sun, Amy Reynolds, dark glasses covering her eyes, lounged upon a deck chair. For a woman her age, she was in remarkably good shape and it showed in the skimpy bathing attire she currently wore. Her multitude of marriages had left her quite well off and she had the freedom and time to indulge herself. The yacht she was aboard belonged to a dear close friend. 

A steward stopped at her side. “Madame has a phone call.”

Slipping on her cover-up, Amy sighed dramatically and wondered who could be calling, hoping it was not a business one. She was here to get away from all that. 

Picking up the phone she spoke in a bored tone of voice. “Amy Reynolds.” 

When the voice on the other end answered she exclaimed, “Charles, is something wrong?” 

She remained silent as Charles gave his report. “I see. Is the dear boy all right?” 

Instead of assuring her, Charles was complaining. She let out a sigh. 

“Yes, yes. I understand, Charles. A broken mirror is minor, just have it replaced. How is…” In spite of the fact that Napoleon was not a relative, she was very fond of the dear boy. “He’s what?” 

She listened to the reply. “That does not sound good.” 

Charles had more to say. 

“If you are quite sure.” she responded with relief. The two young men she had left in Charles' charge evidently had too much time on their hands and needed some sort of diversion. Her mind swiftly went through several possibilities. Her decision was swiftly made; after all, she did not own her own companies for nothing. 

“Listen closely, Charles. This is what I want you to do.” She quickly explained what she had in mind. “Have you got all that, Charles?” she asked. On receiving an affirmative she rang off. Tapping her manicured fingernail on the receiver for a minute, she once again picked it up and made another long-distance call.

∞∞∞

Act II-Politics Make for Strange Friendships

Back in New York, Charles lowered the receiver onto the hook. After picking up the shards of glass and working to remove the bloodstains from the carpet he had hung around instead of leaving as he usually did. 

Solo had barricaded himself in the study, refusing breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Kuryakin roamed moodily around the apartment, playing gloomy melodies on the piano before returning to the bedroom and collapsing across the bed. It was when Charles heard the muffled moans issuing from the bedroom that he made his call.

It was after midnight when Solo finally left the study. He looked like hell and didn’t appear surprise to find Charles still there. 

“Did he put on his brace?” Solo asked quietly.

“Nope.”

“Take his pills?” 

“Took one.”

With a heavy sigh, Napoleon went to the bedroom doors, squared his shoulders, and entered the room shutting the door behind him. Charles stared at the closed doors for awhile. Tomorrow was going to be difficult, but he at least had already put Mrs. Reynolds' plan into operation. 

The next morning Charles knocked on the bedroom door and announced that breakfast was ready. Five minutes later the bedroom doors opened. Kuryakin moving slowly and painfully, definitely looking worse than when he had arrived. His face was pale and there were dark circles under his blue eyes. He was fully dressed and his steps were stiff. At least he was wearing his brace. 

Solo followed two steps behind, hovering behind the thinner man. He didn’t look much better. He was still in his nightclothes and robe, his dark hair tousled, his face unshaven. Both men spotted the packed suitcases sitting next to the front door, but neither said anything as they sat down.

As he poured each man a cup of coffee, Charles informed them. “I placed a call to the Boss Lady.”

Napoleon nodded, his gaze shifting to the packed cases. “Aunt Amy has decided to throw us out,” Napoleon stated. It wasn’t a question; he had fully expected it when he saw the suitcases. Taking in a sick acquaintance was one thing, destroying property another.

“Nope.” Charles said placing plates in front of the two men.

Both men looked up questioningly and then pointedly at the suitcases by the door.

“Miss Reynolds says youze two need a diversion. We leave as soon as the two of ya are ready.”

“Perhaps it would be best if I just returned to my apartment,” Illya whispered as he picked at his eggs..

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re in no shape to be on your own,” Napoleon argued.

“Do not treat me like a child,” Illya spoke angrily.

“If you didn’t act like one, you wouldn’t be treated like one,” Napoleon snapped. 

“If youze guys are through bickering, I’d like to be outta here in an hour.” 

Napoleon closed his eyes and counted to ten. “I’m sorry. I should never have said that,” he said apologetically. “It’s just that I don’t like seeing you hurting.”

“What if I just refuse to go? Can I at least know where I’m going?”

Charles took away the empty plates. “Nope. Look, it's like this, youze two ain’t gotta choice. Miz Reynolds sez ya go, ya go.”

Illya looked at Napoleon. “He can’t be serious.”

Napoleon ran his hands over his face. “I think he is. You have to understand Aunt Amy. She can be rather…determined. Besides have you got anything better to do?”

Illya pushed his chair back. “No.”

“You know what, Illya? I think we’ve just been had.”

“We? She’s your ‘aunt’.”

 

∞∞∞

 

Napoleon twisted around to look into the backseat of Aunt Amy’s Limo. They had been on the road now for five hours and he was concerned about the Russian. Even with all the pillows they had brought to cushion the seat on which Illya was stretched out, you could tell he was in intense pain. Illya’s usual monumental control was a thing of the past. His eyes were squelched shut, his lips tightly clamped together, his fists knotted tightly into the coverlet riding out the worst of the pain. All the weeks of work had been undone by yesterday’s trials. 

Before they had set out Napoleon had insisted on getting approval from the doctor. The doctor had made light of the fact that Illya had not worn his brace for twenty-four hours, but Napoleon knew it was a bigger mistake than the doctor realized. Illya’s sensitivity to pain was getting worst by the minute.

The blue eyes opened for just a moment.

“How are you feeling?” Napoleon asked quietly.

Illya’s eyes closed and he gave a slight shake of his head.

“Charles, stop at the next hotel you come to,” Napoleon demanded turning back to the front of the car. A nod of the chauffeur's cap was the only acknowledgement he received. He breathed a sigh of relief when ten minutes later Charles pulled into a hotel parking lot. 

Napoleon reached into the backseat to shake Illya awake. 

“Wha…where are we?” Came the groggy question. “Are we there yet?”

“No. It’s okay. We’re just stopping for the night.”

Illya looked out the window. It was still daylight. “Is not dark. No stay.”

“Look, Illya, you’re in no shape to go further right now.”

“No stay.” Illya repeated.

Napoleon sighed. “Charles, how much further?”

“Couple hours.”

“Ok. But you have to take a couple of your pills.”

“No.”

“Don’t be so stubborn.” Napoleon climbed out of the front seat and went to the back and slid in behind Illya, who whimpered as he was moved, letting him rest against his chest. Pulling the bottle of pills from his pocket, he poured out a couple. Napoleon reached for the thermos of cold water that Charles passed back to him. Making sure the pills went down, Napoleon held securely onto the slim body until they took affect. With great reluctance, he eased from behind Illya’s frail body and bundled him up for the rest of the trip to wherever.

As he slid back into the front seat of the limo, Napoleon once again asked Charles. “You’re still not going to tell me where we’re going, are you?”

Charles face split into a huge grin. “Nope.” Sometimes following the Boss Lady’s orders was fun.

 

∞∞∞

It was nearly dusk when they reached the outskirts of Cape Cod. Napoleon began to have an inkling of where they might be going. Surely his Aunt had not imposed upon…, he thought. She had he realized when Charles drove up the winding driveway and stopped in front of a familiar, at least to Napoleon, cottage. Standing at the entrance waiting to greet them was a woman, a scarf covering her blonde hair, dressed casually in capris.

Napoleon glared at Charles, who was looking smug, as he reached over the back of the car seat to nudge Illya. “Wake up. We’re here.”

“And where might here be?” Illya groused as he tried to sit up and a sharp pain ran down his back.

Napoleon had exited the car but before he could open the back door he found himself in the woman’s warm embrace, leaving Charles to come around and extract the Russian from his imprisonment in the backseat.

“Naps darling,” the blonde crooned. “It’s so wonderful to see you.” She pulled away at arms length to get a better look at him. “You’re looking marvelous, in spite of needing a shave,” she said teasingly. Then she looked around him to where Illya was being helped from the car. “And this must be your friend that your Aunt Amy told us about. Welcome to Cape Cod,” she said warmly, extending her hand in greeting to the frail Russian.

Illya could only stand there in stunned silence as he took the hand offered.

She had already turned back to Napoleon. “You two must be tired. Come on in and I will show you where you will be staying.” She led the way through the front door.

"Don't go out of your way for us. Just think of as part of the furniture," Napoleon advised.

"Don't be silly, darling." she giggled. "You could never be just part of anything."

Illya slumped against the car door letting the car support his weight and reached out to snag Napoleon before he could get away. “Is that who I think it is?” he whispered.

Napoleon simply nodded. He turned back, ready to help bear his friend’s weight, but Illya shrugged off his offered help, determined to follow under his own power. Napoleon followed along, half a pace behind just in case, while Charles brought up the rear with their luggage. 

As they walked though the well appointed rooms, she kept up a constant stream of chatter. “I know Teddy wishes he were here to greet you, but he’s stuck in Washington DC for a couple of days.” They continued out the back door and around the pool. “Your Aunt Amy said she was sending over Jacque, you remember him don’t you, for your friend, Mr. …Kuryakin isn’t it?” 

 

Once they were in the house Napoleon found himself besieged by three children. Eleven year old Kari, ten year old Edward Jr., and six year old Patrick, all clamored around the senior agent. 

"Unk 'Poleon," squealed Patrick.

Illya's eyebrows went up. "Unk 'poleon?" he mouthed.

Napoleon looked at him calmly and smiled, not the least embarrassed.

"Run along, children," voiced their mother. "Let me show them to the guest area." She watched fondly as her brood obeyed, before leading them through the house, pointing out changes that had taken place since Solo's last visit. They went out the back, past the pool to a small guest house overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. "I hope you will both be comfortable," she said as Charles moved around her with the luggage. "The intercom is here. I'll notify you when supper is ready, shall I?"

Kissing her again, Solo said, "Thank you for everything."

"Really, Napoleon. It's the least we can do." She flashed a smile at Illya before leaving.

Illya plopped into a comfortable chair. "Okay...what was that all about?"

Napoleon smiled fondly down at his Russian friend. "First let's get you settled."

Charles returned to the room having unpacked and put away the luggage. "Your things are in the room on the right, Mr. S. His are to the left. If you need me just give me a ring," he informed them before taking his leave.

Napoleon ushered Illya into the room on the left and immediately began to herd him toward the bed. Illya protested, of course, especially when Napoleon knelt down to help remove Illya's shoes - but this time Napoleon got his way. 

Fluffing the pillows on the bed, Napoleon made sure that Illya settled against them before answering Illya's unasked questions. "Before you arrived in America and we were partnered together, I was assigned to protect John F. and his family."

"John F. as in the President?"

"He wasn't President at the time." Napoleon smiled sadly at past memories. "You remember 'The Candidate's Wife Affair? '? Same sort of thing, but different. While there was no real threat at the time, Mr. Waverly didn't want to take any chances. Bobby and I became friends and through him I met his brother Teddy and Joan."

Illya's eyes grew big. "Bobby...Teddy? That seems rather presumptuous of you."

Napoleon shrugged. "I'm not easily intimidated. Besides it wasn't the first time we'd met. My grandfather, the ambassador, had introduced me to the Kennedy family years ago, long before I joined U.N.C.L.E. Aunt Amy went to school with Rose Fitzgerald. You remember that vacation I went on while you dealt with that memory machine?"

Illya nodded. Waverly had decided to use the fact that Napoleon knew nothing about the assignment work for him by sending him to pick up the suitcase of Mimi Doolittle. That little plan had backfired.

"This is where I came."

Illya turned onto his side, his head propped by one hand. "I never thought you politically inclined."

"That's what you get for thinking. Tell you what. Why don't you rest for now and maybe I'll let you in on some of my other well-kept secrets." Napoleon winked.

Illya would have protested, but the moment his head hit the pillow he was out like a light.

 

∞∞∞

Illya opened his eyes to find two pairs of eyes staring at him. 

"Hi," Kari said around the peanut butter and jelly sandwich in her mouth as she sat Indian fashion on the floor. "I'm Kari, remember me? This is my brother, P.J.. Want some peanut butter and jelly?" she offered, holding out an extra sandwich.

Illya's stomach growled, which caused Kari to giggle, and she handed over the extra sandwich. 

P.J. crawled onto the bed, a bunch of comic books in his hands, and pushed them toward Illya. Before long the three of them were spread out on the bed reading comics.

That was the sight Napoleon came upon when he gave a warning tap on the door before pushing it open to wheel a food cart through the door. He and Joan had agreed that because of Illya's condition it would be best if he ate in this first night. 

"Having fun, I see," Napoleon bit his lower lip to keep from laughing. "Kid's, it's time you scoot. Your mother has supper waiting."

Not the least bit embarrassed, Illya threw down the comic he was reading and licked his lips. "Food!"

∞∞∞  
Over the next week Napoleon's days were spent in making sure that Illya was fed, took his medication, and exercised. Exercise. Now that was another story. Jacque stood by the work table he'd set up in what Joan referred to as 'the exercise room'. 

"No! I categorically refuse." Illya's arms were folded across his chest. He'd been getting stronger with each passing day, however the pain was still with him. They both agreed that constantly living on muscle relaxants would not work, but there were heated arguments on the course of treatment.

"Illya, be reasonable," Napoleon pleaded. He'd known that Illya would not come willingly so he'd had to trick him with the promise of a swim in the heated indoor pool. He found it increasingly contradictory that the man who could withstand torture would complain about things as simple as a hangnail or following doctor's orders.

"Monsieur, perhaps you would prefer my associate, Helga?"

A two hundred pound muscle bound female with ample breasts stepped forward and cracked her knuckles. "Ya, I would enjoy working you over."

Illya backed away, shaking his head, while Napoleon, who was there for emotional support, winced and stepped back. 

Then somehow they got distracted by a flurry of giggles. It seemed the Kennedy kids had found out something was afoot and decided to watch the fun.

"Mr. K. is Chicken," called out Kari, flapping her arms and clucking. Her two brothers following her lead.

"Scoot!" Napoleon said sternly. He felt comfortable enough around them to order them about.

Kari pouted. "Do we have to, Mr. K.?"

Illya paused before nodding. He knew that there would be difficulties with discussing this in front of the kids and he didn't want them to hear the language that might be used.

"You heard the man." Joan Kennedy stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. "Scat!" she softened her demand with a smile and a wink to the two men before following her brood. 

Napoleon pulled Illya aside. "Illya, this is something you need to do. If not for you than for me."

"Why?"

"I know we haven't talked about this..., but what are your plans once you've completely recovered?"

Illya dropped his head. This was something that he had avoided thinking about. What choices did he have? Continue on as an agent, if U.N.C.L.E. would allow it? Transfer to the labs? Try to find something in the private sector? 

"Illya, I know this is difficult, but you have to know that whatever you decide I'll support you 100%. Whether you stay with U.N.C.L.E. and go back into the field, though I'm hoping you don't, or move into the lab. Whether you stay with U.N.C.L.E. at all. But nothing's going to happen until you recover and you haven't fully recuperated yet.".

"Why do you care?"

Napoleon snorted. "You're my best friend. A rarity in our profession. "

"Okay," Illya said reluctantly, as he dropped the robe he'd been wearing, kicked off his flip-flops, and climbed on the massage table. "And for the record, I am not chicken."

Napoleon smiled as he settled into one of the deck chairs surrounding the pool.

 

∞∞∞

 

Illya and Napoleon were pretty much left to their own devices, except of course when the children decided otherwise. Illya, as it turned out, had a special affinity for children. He was patient and gentle with them, reading and telling stories, playing games, much to Napoleon's surprise.

"Napoleon. Napoleon."

The whispered hiss brought Napoleon out of a sound sleep. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Shss. Someone's here."

Napoleon half rose from the bed. "Where?"

"In there." Illya jerked his head towards the living area, then muttered, "And me without my gun." 

Napoleon threw back the covers and slipped out of bed. This was crazy, they were staying at the Kennedy compound. While they were in the public eye, the Kennedy's valued their privacy and were well protected. Then he heard a sound in the other room. Stealthfully, with Illya at his back, he snuck toward the sound. Two glowing red dots rushed his way and the next thing he knew he was flat on his back. 

The lights clicked on and Napoleon found a Portuguese water dog on his chest, the dog's tail wagging and his long tongue licking at his face. Laughing he wrestled the dark, furry creature off of him and looked back to find that another dog had Illya climbing on the back of the couch with a look that Napoleon had never seen on the Russian's face before. 

"It's a dog, Illya."

"Yes, I'm aware of that."

Napoleon rolled over and pushed the pup that was trying to kiss him away. "You're not afraid of dogs are you?"

Illya climbed higher as he glared at Napoleon. "Of course not. Whose are they?"

Napoleon looked as if he didn't believe Illya. Studying the two animals he came to a conclusion. "My guess is they belong to Ted. He's always been partial to Portuguese water dogs," he said as he ruffled the fur on the one closest to him.

The dog that has been harassing Illya, ran toward the door that led out to the beach at the back of the property. Using his nose he widened the gap and slipping out the door only to return a moment later and bark. The other dog gave Napoleon's face a final lick, prancing around before following suit. 

Napoleon got up off of the floor and went to where the dark curtains billowed, seeing the dawn through the glass sliding doors. How was it that he missed the fact that there was a door behind the curtains? Of course they were staying in the Kennedy compound and one didn't expect to have to watch out for intruders. 

He was distracted from his thoughts when one of the dogs returned to pull on his pajama sleeve. "Hey, what do you think you're doing?"

Illya leaned back across the top of the sofa, laughing his head off.

Napoleon turned an ugly glare at Illya as he worked to pull the sleeve from the dog's mouth. Secretly he was pleased. He hadn't heard Illya laugh so hard since before he'd left U.N.C.L.E.

"I think he wants you to follow him," Illya suggested.

"At least let me change," Napoleon told the dog, then turned to his partner. "Feeling up to a stroll on the beach?"

Illya batted his eyes. "I thought you would never ask."

 

∞∞∞

The ocean was at their back door and they spent the early morning hours, once Illya was strong enough, walking up and later jogging down the private beach. Napoleon wasn't surprised to learn that Illya's aversion to the sea had not abated any. Now that Illya was improving by leaps and bounds, Napoleon was in a quandary about what to do. They couldn't continue to impose on the Kennedy's hospitality, even though Joan insisted that it was not an imposition.

"Napoleon, darling."   
Napoleon looked up from the book he was reading in the Kennedy library. His face softened as he glanced at Illya, who was playing a board game with the younger members of the Kennedy family and losing. His smile widened as Joan appeared in the doorway, a huge chocolate cake covered with lit candles sat on the tray she carried.

"Happy Birthday," she said as she set the tray on the table in front of an astonished Illya. 

Napoleon clamped a hand on Illya's shoulder. "Surprise."

The children joined in singing, "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, Mr. Kaaaa. Happy Birthday to you."

"I don't know what to say?"

"You might want to blow out the candles before they burn the house down," Napoleon suggested.

The kids giggled and Joan joined in the laughter until the phone distracted her attention. She slipped away to answer it, then turned to Napoleon.

"You have a call," she said as she held out the receiver. "A Mr. Waverly?"

Illya and Napoleon exchanged worried looks, each wondering how the man had tracked them down. 

Napoleon took the receiver.

"Solo," Napoleon said curtly.

"Mr. Solo. Our Hong Kong office sent word that an American tourist appears to have been kidnapped. A Mrs. Amy Reynolds. The strange part is they are demanding that you, Mr. Solo, deliver the sum of one million dollars in ransom. I'll expect you and Mr. Kuryakin back in New York as soon as possible." Click. 

Napoleon closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Bad news?" 

A sharp nod answered that question. Taking a deep breath, Napoleon hit the receiver button, then dialed a number from memory. "Charles? We need you."

Saying goodbye proved difficult. While waiting for Charles's arrival, Napoleon made a quick apology to Joan about their leaving without really saying why. In the meantime Illya, after scooping some frosting from his cake, left to hurriedly pack their bags. The kids were inconsolable until Illya suggested they finish his cake for him.

Once the bags were loaded and Charles settled into the driver's seat, he turned to ask, "Where to, Mr. S?"

"Alexandria Park Hotel. We've got problems."

It's only when they on the road that Napoleon tells them what little he knows. Settled back in the rear seat he mentally ponders the how, when, and whys. There are too many questions and he doesn't want to rely on U.N.C.L.E. for the answers.

∞∞∞  
Act III - Hong Kong and Old Friends

"Hong Kong," Illya said broodingly, shutting to door to the penthouse apartment. He'd spent most of the ride back to New York trying to relive an assignment that he couldn't remember. Thinking about the weeks he'd lost while in a coma, the months of pain and having to work through it alone. All of it coming back to haunt him. "Hong Kong?"

Napoleon, who had loosened his tie and slung himself down on the sofa, shrugged. It seemed an unlikely place for Aunt Amy to be. "Charles? You know her best. Does that sound like something she'd do?"

Charles grunted as he unloaded the suitcases on the foyer floor. "Geeze, Mr. S., last I heard Miz Reynolds was on board some yacht in the Mediterranean. But Hong Kong? She's unpredictable." He shook his head. "It's possible, I suppose. What I find hinky iz the one million. That's peanuts for Miz R."

"That's what I thought." Napoleon shared a look with Illya that said they both agreed.

Charles frowned. "Whatever the two's of you are planning I want in on."

Illya leaned forward. "Charles, do you carry a gun."

"Mr. K., you know that ex-cons are discouraged from packing." He leaned over just enough to reach behind him and withdrew a gun from its place of concealment in his waistband. "'course that don't mean I'm not."

"That's good to know." Napoleon settled back, encouraged for the first time since hearing the news about Aunt Amy. Now was the time to put some plans into place.

∞∞∞

On the date of Kuryakin’s fortieth birthday, an open convertible pulled up in front of Del Floria’s entrance. Two men, one dark, the other blond, both tan, well rested and in obvious good health, got out and made their way down the steps. The darker of the two nodded to the man behind the counter before entering the booth and turning the hook. Entering the receptionist area, a voice was heard over the intercom. “Welcome back, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin.”

The two men walked down the metal corridors presenting a united front. Their first priority was to get Aunt Amy back. Then they would see what the future might bring.  
In the months that they'd been away nothing seemed to have change. 

Waverly rose from his chair to greet them. "Have a seat, gentlemen."

Once the men were seated, Waverly tossed a folder onto the table top and spun it around letting it stop in front of Napoleon. "This, Mr. Solo, is all the information that was sent to us. I am at a loss as to why they contacted us. Normally U.N.C.L.E. would not involve itself with such an assignment. "

Napoleon opened the folder and began reviewing its contents. Too many question's and he didn't want to rely on U.N.C.L.E. for answers. "I was going to ask how you knew where to find us, but now I know."

He slid the folder over to Illya, who put on his glasses and perused the few sheets. Illya grunted. One glance was all it took. There in black and white were explicit instructions. Who to contact and how, where to get the money, where to deliver said money. The only way U.N.C.L.E. could have located them. Catching Illya's eyes, Napoleon knew that they silently agree upon one certain piece of information. Aunt Amy must have told her kidnappers. 

Napoleon gathered up the folder and began to rise. "Thank you, sir. I'll just take care of this little matter."

" Well, do hurry back, Mr. Solo. Your paper work is piling up," Waverly effectively dismissed him, treating their absence as if it were a temporary thing. As if getting Mrs. Reynolds back was a minor nuisance, a mere prelude to more important matters. Perhaps it was the fact that Waverly did not condone blackmail . Waverly's attitude irritated his former Number One of Section Two. It indicated a lack of concern for Aunt Amy's welfare. Napoleon rose, fully expecting Illya to follow.

"Mr. Kuryakin, please remain seated. We have much to discuss."

The two men exchanged looks, Illya's a bit apologetic as he regained his seat to find out what Waverly felt needed to be discussed.

Waverly came right to the point. "The first order of business will be for you to check with medical and get your clearance. Then finding you a new partner with whom you will need to review the current assignments. "

Napoleon reigned in his shock. Wasn't age the reason he'd been pulled from the field leaving his partner in danger? 

"He's forty you know," Napoleon pointed out. 

"And your point would be, Mr. Solo?" Waverly asked resentfully. 

"Isn't that why you pulled me from the field?"

"While this matter no longer concerns you, Mr. Solo, the fact is that we have too much invested in Mr. Kuryakin to waste his considerable talents."

Napoleon sank back into his chair. That implied that he was not regarded as valuable. It pained him to remember how easily replaceable he'd been considered and to realize that his talents had not been deemed enough to keep in the field, no matter that he had begged. No matter the sacrifices he or Illya had made for U.N.C.L.E., all he could see was how easily he'd been tossed aside. It was equally clear that Illya was not looked at as a man, but a piece of equipment to be used until there was nothing left. The bitterness of how little Illya's life was worth to them sunk in. Any thought he'd had about returning to the fold and continuing the fight to save the world died in that instant. 

He was almost tempted to get up and leave when Illya's hand caught his arm, staying his move. His eyes shifted to his partner. Illya appeared composed, his eyes only on Mr. Waverly. One finger tapped out a message on his arm in their special code. 'Not now'

"Mr. Waverly," Illya began softly. "While I appreciate your concern...I'm not sure if I wish to return to the field."

Napoleon almost laughed at Waverly's look of disbelief. He knew Illya well enough not to be deceived by the deceptively mild tone with which he spoke. Napoleon shifted more comfortably in his seat. This meeting was about to heat up.

"Nonsense, Mr. Kuryakin. Just what else would you be qualified to do?" Waverly brushed Illya's concerns aside.

Illya tapped his chin, considering. "I could be a translator. I could teach, after all I do have a degree in quantum mechanics. Perhaps I could even be a...fashion designer."

Napoleon actually burst out laughing at that last proposal. He was sure Illya could manage to pull even that one off with his usual flair. 

∞∞∞

Act IV - The Rescue of Aunt Amy

 

In the twenty-four hours since word had come of Aunt Amy's kidnapping a lot had been accomplished. The time spent at the penthouse had not been wasted. Amy's travel plans, her contacts for this trip were gone over with a fine tooth comb to be compared with the information U.N.C.L.E. supplied. 

Napoleon stood outside a small kiosk inside the Hong Kong Air Terminal and thumbed through a magazine while awaiting the arrival of the jet from New York. He mentally reviewed the plans that had been made in New York. One of the things that made Napoleon such a great agent was his ability to not only plan three steps ahead, but to revise them at a moment's notice. Less than twenty-four hours previous he, Illya, and Charles had separated. Napoleon to gather the money for the ransom and Illya to be poked by the medical section in a endeavor to be deemed fit enough to accompany him. Charles, they had sent on ahead even before they entered Del Floria's Taylor Shop. 

Finally the door from the terminal opened and passengers began to stream though. Eventually the expected blond head of his partner came into sight. God, he looked tired as he followed the crowd. Even Napoleon had to agree that Waverly's insistence of a thorough check up was a necessity. Illya assured him that no matter what the medical section deemed he would be right behind him. 

With studied casualness, Napoleon moved to flank him until the two were walking side-by-side and he deftly removed the briefcase Illya held onto. The suitcase carrying the one million dollar ransom. Together the two walked to the exit where Charles waited at the exit, a dark haired beauty at his side.

"Welcome to Hong Kong, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin." Heavenly Cortelle said with a slight bow.

Napoleon returned it politely. "Thank you for meeting us, Detective Cortelle."

Heavenly smiled brightly. She wasn't your normal Hong Kong police officer. "It is Inspector Oren. I am now head of Hong Kong's Special Unit." 

"And how is Bernie?" Illya asked. They had met the young man in this very city on a long ago assignment, using him at a time when they were not sure which side Heavenly Cortelle was on. 

"If he knows what is good for him, he is picking up the children from school." Her smile dimmed. "I am truly sorry for the circumstances."

Heavenly dug in her purse, pulling a badge as she spoke sharply in Cantonese to two customs officials who seemed intent on stopping the small group.

Once everyone was settled in the car that Charles had managed to scrounge up, Heavenly handed over a folder. "I am sorry there is nothing more to report." she crossed her long legs. "At first we thought that Apricot was back in business, but it appears that she is not."

Napoleon sighed. He knew this won't be easy. 

"May I see your briefcase please?" Heavenly requested. 

Illya pulled the suitcase across his lap, opened it, then turned it to face Heavenly. She whistled softly, a cool million staring her in the face, then she slowly pulled a small disk from inside her bra. "My superiors would only allow a couple of men to watch the drop, I'm afraid. I am sorry that there is nothing more I can do for you except to leave you with this tracking devise. If you hadn't introduced me to my Bernie I would not even be allowed to do that." She slipped it into the briefcases lining and passed the directional device to Napoleon. 

The car pulled up at the Hong Kong police station. "Good luck, gentlemen." Heavenly kissed each man on the cheek before sliding out of the car.

As their vehicle slid away from the curb they realized that they were on their own. U.N.C.L.E. refused to back them and they could only count on limited help from the Hong Kong police. 

"Shall we drop in on U.N.C.L.E. Hong Kong?" Illya inquired.

Napoleon shook his head. "I did that first thing." 

"And?" Illya persisted. 

"They stonewalled me."

Napoleon looked out the window taking in the ever changing view as they drove by. He was lucky if he got to see Hong Kong once a year and every time there was something new to see. He needed the time to try to hide his frustration. He hadn't been able to talk with Mr. Li, head of U.N.C.L.E. Hong Kong, instead being referred to his secretary who had been polite but firm. "I am sorry, Mr. Solo, without orders from New York there is nothing we can do."

Illya smiled faintly, not surprise. On the few times they had needed to attend to something personal Waverly had always seemed to begrudge them the time.

"What do we do now?" Illya asked.

"Charles, is everything in place?"

Charles nodded. 

Illya was puzzled as the car wove its way through the back streets of Hong Kong. He drummed his fingers on the leather armrest. For some reason a tightness settled into his chest. He started to breathe easier once they were away from the warehouse district. Too many memories. There was a time when he could stare fear in the face. Why couldn't he now?

"You okay?" Napoleon asked quietly.

Illya nodded, lying through his teeth. He'd really thought his nightmares were in the past, but at the moment he wasn't so sure.

Napoleon leaned close. "Don't worry. The way Charles drives no one could be following us."

Oddly enough, Illya hadn't been concerned about that. Night had fallen by the time they arrived at Hong Kong harbor. He and Napoleon got out of the car and in a matter of moments located a sampan that would take them to the rendezvous.

Illya was still curious how they were to make an exchange in a public place like the Tai Pak Floating Restaurant. 

The sampan rocked as it got closer to the huge barge that housed the elaborately decorated floating food palace and Illya was suddenly filled with a sense of dread. He stood still, his whole body became rigid and he didn't understand why. He looked up to find that Napoleon had already left the craft and held his arm out to help assist Illya. He could only imagine the warm flush that stole over his features as he took the offered hand that hefted him off the sampan. Napoleon had been doing things like that ever since his release from U.N.C.L.E.'s medical section and Illya found that, in spite of everything, he liked it. Just the touch of Napoleon's hand made him feel less alone. He felt guilty and berated himself for feeling that way.

"Hungry?" Napoleon asked.

Suddenly all was right in Illya's world. "Have you ever known when I was not?"

Soon they were seated and placing their order.

"I know we've never discussed this, but do you want to tell me what went down?"

"Down where?" Illya played nervously with the salt and pepper shakers.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about."

"I thought you read the report?"

"I read a report, but I didn't see yours."

"That's because I didn't give one. I was in a coma."

"So give me one now," Napoleon demanded.

"I can't," Illya muttered. He heaved a sigh, unable to look Napoleon in the eye. "I don't remember."

He was saved the further embarrassment of explaining by the arrival of their meal. 

Inwardly Napoleon groaned. All this time that he and Illya had spent together and he'd had no idea. How could he have not known? He glance down at the briefcase at his feet and frowned. There was something odd about it. He lifted it. It was quite a bit lighter than when they'd arrived. Napoleon pushed his plate away in disgust. He'd been trying so hard to get information out of Illya that he'd missed it. The switch has been made and it looked like their meal would be delayed. "The games a foot. Looks like our meal will have to wait." 

Napoleon looked up at Illya, who was busy stuffing his face. He cocked an eyebrow and looked questioning at the almost empty plate. 

Illya shrugged and his eyes twinkled.

Napoleon shook his head wondering just how the switch had been made. 

"The waiter," Illya responded to the unanswered question. He pointed his fork towards Napoleon's plate. "Are you going to eat that?"

Signaling the waiter, Napoleon reached into his jacket, removing his wallet. At least Illya's mood was better. He leafed through the bills to determine if he had enough to pay their tab and a nice tip. "Illya? You got any money on you?"

"Typical," Illya grunted as he pulled a money clip from his jacket and tossed it to Napoleon.

Adding a few bills from his wallet, Napoleon rose to leave shaking his head when Illya pocketed some of the money. 

"All things considered do you really want to tip them that much?"

Napoleon started to complain, but decided to let it slide. After all Illya did have a point.

 

After a good meal, Illya's disposition seemed to have improved. Now Napoleon could concentrate on the endeavor at hand. Rescuing his Aunt Amy.

 

"Are you sure this is the place?" Napoleon asked doubtfully.

"This iz where the thing-a-ma-jig the dame put with the moola led," Charles confirmed. 

"What's wrong?" Illya asked nervously from the back seat.

"It's a monastery!"

"You are right. It is a monastery," Illya agreed. "A fucking huge one."

"Monastery? Ain't there nothin' but men there?" Charles asked. "Sounds right up yer Aunt's alley."

"You do realize they're monks? Monks are generally celibate." Illya informed Charles.

Napoleon pulled at his lower lip. "Something's not right. I just can't put my finger on it."

"There is only one way to find out. Why don't we just go in and ask if they have your Aunt Amy?" Illya suggested.

Napoleon snorted. "I'd rather we were more circumspect."

"Ah. May I point out that we are currently weaponless?"

Napoleon winked. "Charles?"

Charles moved to the back of the car and opened the trunk which contained everything the average cat burglar would need.  
"And the pièce de résistance," Napoleon said as he drew a case from the trunk and opened it. Inside were two familiar U.N.C.L.E. specials. Embossed on the handles were two initials. S and K.  
Illya hefted his and lovingly stroked the barrel, suddenly feeling whole again. A sly smile lit his face. "Let's do it."

The three men, snuck into the courtyard and crept through the buildings keeping close to the walls, careful to avoid making any noise. Then they came to the steep stairway. As silently as ninjas they moved up the steps and into the shadows.

"And to think I thought you a gentleman." Aunt Amy's haughty voice could be heard in the shadow of the huge Buddha. "Had I know what a beast you were when we met on the Riviera..."

"My dear Mrs. Reynolds."

Napoleon and Illya froze at the sound of that voice. Victor Marton? As if they'd choreographed it, the three stepped out of the darkness, guns aimed at the Frenchman. Oddly enough the man was dressed like a Mandarin and sitting on a thrown in front of the Big Buddah.

"Napoleon! Thank God you're here." Amy cried out with joy. "How on earth did you find me?"

"I followed the money," Napoleon said with a grin.

Marton did not appear surprised to see them. "What a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Kuryakin."

Napoleon stopped short and stared at Illya whose eyes were wide, his face pale, and he was trembling. What the hell was going on? He reached out a hand hoping to soothe his partner. 

"What are you talking about, Marton?" Napoleon demanded.

"Ask you little friend."

"Illya?"

Illya was shaking his head as if he were trying to clear it. " I don't know. I don't remember."

"Of course you do," Marton's smirk was pure wickedness.

Napoleon was puzzled. 

"Gentlemen, surely you didn't think this was over a mere million dollars. Not after that debacle over five years ago in New York?"

"A million dollars! A measly million," Amy squealed indignantly. "I'll have you know, Mr. Victor Marton, that I am worth much more than one little bitty million dollars."

"Now, now, my dear. You were just the means to an end. The consummate revenge."

"You're pretty cocky for someone that has three guns pointed at him," Napoleon informed him.

Marton let out a sigh and raised one hand. "Allez, gentlemen."

All hell broke loose. Out of nowhere a group of bald-headed monks appeared, surrounding them. 

"Shaolin Monks," Illya muttered.

"Your fount of miscellaneous trivia isn't helping here," Napoleon countered. Before he could shift the barrow of his gun to cover the intruders, three of them took a stance, raised their arms and slowly lowered them to moved there palms together in a praying position. The next thing he knew they were moving as fast as lighting; twirling, then jumping up to kick all three guns out of Napoleon, Illya, and Charles' hands, followed by back flips that brought them back to their original positions. Three more rolled across the floor, sweeping up the guns as they went.

"That is enough, gentlemen," Marton ordered.

The crew of monks bowed reverently, then faded into the background.

Marton wasn't as stupid as he looked. He had a gun pulled on them and two standard thugs with automatic rifles covering them. He pulled a briefcase from behind his throne and held it out to Amy. "I'm sorry for the disruption, my dear, but it is time for you and your manservant to leave."

"No!" Aunt Amy was adamant.

"Aunt Amy, don't do anything rash, just do as the man says," Napoleon pleaded. 

"That is one thing that I've always admired about you, Mr. Solo. Your ability to admit defeat. Come now, gentlemen. It's time we left this place."

Napoleon would have denied the charge, but to what purpose. There was always hope as long as they were still alive and in one piece. Plus there was the little matter of curiosity. What was Marton up to, and what did he have to do with Illya's last assignment.

 

"Think, Illya," Napoleon urged as he wrestled with the knots that tied his hands behind his back.

"I'm trying. It's a complete blank." Illya, too, tried his best to get loose.

"Illya, Marton had to be there. Nothing else makes sense."

Illya shook his head. "No way."

"Illya, you freaked out. You were pale as a ghost. I've never seen you like that before."

"I was not." Illya was indignant. "Was I?"

Napoleon nodded.

"Mr. Kuryakin. I'm disappointed. We were having such a wonderful time before that building collapsed on top of you." Marton's laugh sounded a little mad. "Your last partner was so easily manipulated. I had to work much harder this time around. Fortunately we now have a two for one special. "

"Why?" Napoleon was curious to know Marton's reasons.

"Why you ask. First you mess up my operation in Hong Kong, then you cost me a promotion by thwarting me during the Thought Transference Diabolical. Do I need another reason?" Marton's voice grew more shrill. 

Napoleon looked at Illya. He looked resigned. 

"So what's your plan?"

"I would think that was obvious," Marton's smile was definitely evil. 

Napoleon exchanged a puzzled look with Illya, who didn't appear puzzled at all. What the hell was that supposed to mean.

"We're on a ferry," Illya explained dryly.

So? Then he got it. Ferry...water and he wasn't the best of swimmers. They needed to get out of these ropes. 

"I understand the water is very cold this time of year." Marton sounded too cheerful. The man was definitely mad. He motioned for his henchmen to gather up the bound men.

Dawn was breaking through the fog as they were hauled onto the deck. Napoleon looked around, the island on which the Buddha was situated was in the distance. He could even see tiny people wandering around. Just where were the tourist? Not that he wanted innocents involved, but it would have made for a distraction and just possibly some sort of escape would have occurred to him. If he ever needed Solo's luck, now was the time.

"I think we'll just make sure that this time Mr. Kuryakin fails to survive." Marton pulled a gun from under his jacket and pointed it directly at Illya.

"Noooo!!!" Napoleon screamed as he threw himself at Marton in the hope of throwing his aim off. In slow motion the gun went off and Illya fell back into the sea as Marton was thrown aside. Even with his hands tied behind his back, Napoleon somehow managed to fling himself into the sea after Illya. As his body hit the water he heard another splash and shouts coming from nowhere. He sunk, sunk, sunk, all the time trying to locate Illya. Kicking he rose to the surface and shook his head took a deep breath and dove again. Swimming was not one of his favorite sports, but he would be damn if he'd leave Illya all alone to be food for the fish. He was beginning to panic when he couldn't locate his friend. 

Just when he thought he would have to resurface or pass out. He felt a nudge at his shoulder. What little air he had came gushing out as he came face to face with a large fish. The fish took matters into his own hands, or flippers rather, and nudged Napoleon to the surface before he could pass out, then disappeared. 

Napoleon shook his head to get his hair out of his face, then turned around as best as he could trying to get his bearings. The next thing he knew a blond head was bobbing up next to him. "Illya!" he cried out joyfully.

Blue eyes, staring blankly at the world, turned his way. Napoleon's heart stopped beating. Then there was a slow blink and the shaggy head whipped side to side and water gushed out of his mouth. Laughter swell up inside Napoleon; his friend was alive, though for how long was another matter. At least with Illya where he could see him he wasn't panicking.

"Yohooo! Napoleon!"

At first Napoleon thought he was hallucinating. Then he spotted a small flat bottom boat with his Aunt Amy at the bow. Somehow, with the help of their underwater friend, Amy and Charles managed to haul the two water logged men aboard in spite of bullets spraying the water around them. Charles went back to rowing, while Amy did her best to undo the rope that held Napoleon's two wrists together. 

Napoleon shivered once his hands were free and immediately moved to the other end of the boat to grab a paddle to help get them out of firing range, while Amy went to work on Illya.

"How is it you're not dead," he called to Illya.

Illya shrugged as well as he could while struggling to get free. "Right before he pulled the trigger I fell backwards. The timing had to be just right."

 

 

 

Epilogue

 

 

"So has there been any news on Victor Marton?" Napoleon asked.

"Heavenly interviewed the crew of the ferry and everyone confirmed he fell into the sea. They made a search, but no body was recovered." 

"So he could still be out there somewhere." Napoleon pinched the bridge of his nose in disappointment. If anyone could come back from this it would be the old fox. 

"Correct. I did not imagine it?" Illya asked. "Marton was a little crazy?"

"No. No." Napoleon agreed. "I'd say he was definitely insane."

Inspector Heavenly Oren and a shipload of officers arrived shortly after their recovery at sea and after a short gunfight had taken over the ferry. It seemed that she, too, had a tracking device on the money. Napoleon, who had been shivering, was taken immediately to a hospital. It seemed he had once again picked up something from the ocean. Pneumonia. Illya, Aunt Amy, and Charles had the pleasure of staying the home of Heavenly, and her family until Napoleon was deemed ready to return to the states.

"How was everything at chez casa Oren?"

"The perfect example of domesticity." Illya acknowledged. "Your Aunt seems to think you are lonely."

Napoleon got a resigned look on his face. The one that said what kind of trouble am I in now.

With a sly grin Illya pulled out a big black binder.

"What's that?" Napoleon wanted to know.

"I believe it is what you refer to as your little black book."

Napoleon took a second look at it. "My 'little black book' was never that big."

A wicked smirk showed on Illya's face. "Your Aunt felt you needed...a companion." He opened the binder, letting the pages fall where it may. Napoleon's jaw dropped. Napoleon leafed through the sheets. The binder had to contain at least a hundred pictures of former playmates, including stats. Names, addresses, as well as height, weight, hair, and eye color, not to mention religion. There was even a rating system of some sort, going from 1 to 10.

"She had them all investigated." Illya informed him.

Napoleon groaned. Illya certainly seemed to find the whole thing funny.

"I'm not that lonely." Napoleon stated firmly. "Besides I have you."

"That is true." Illya agreed. "While I was recovering you were there every step of the way. Why was that? Surely you are not feeling guilty? What happened to me was not your fault."

"How can you be so sure? If I hadn't let Waverly talk me into moving to Section 1, this might never have happened."

"And if Hitler had never been born, World War II would never have happen. Some things just can't be changed." Illya reasoned. "So what are you saying? That you wish to return to the field? You miss the adrenalin rush that much?"

"Not exactly. I admit that a little break from the action would be nice...but I am not cut out for paperwork." He looked down at the binder and pushed it aside. "Don't you see I felt bad about leaving you alone in the field."

A bright smile lit Illya's face and he placed a hand on Napoleon's arm. "But don't you see. You were always there in my head. Pointing out any errors in my judgment. Insulting my partners. You were always at my side, therefore, I was never truly alone." 

 

The End.


End file.
